


In Time We'll All Get There

by peachchild



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Wingfic, swan lake AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 01:18:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3917824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachchild/pseuds/peachchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s sort of your standard stereotypical fairy tale, actually. Cursed by a witch to be a bird from dusk till dawn. Can only stop when I find my true love. Well, I found him. And he died. So now I have these wings. And sometimes I’m still a bird. Lucky for me, now I can at least control when that happens for the most part.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Time We'll All Get There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Onthecyberseas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onthecyberseas/gifts).



> Apparently, no matter what fandom I'm in, I can't help writing fairy tale AUs.
> 
> Title taken from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l89dVl64Fk8%22) by Alkaline Trio.

It isn’t just the running.

Steve always says it is, that the running helps him quiet his mind, helps him settle the regrets and anxieties that flutter around and around his head. And the running does help.

But it is also the early morning - that time just before dawn when the world is quiet too, the soft glow of the sky off to the east warming him as the sun begins to warm the day. Most nights, when he can’t sleep, he sits on his windowsill and lets the quiet wash over him, lets it settle into his bones. The soft crunch of late-night drivers in the streets, the orange wash of lights across the way - they make him at once feel surreally alone and terribly connected, his body buzzing with that feeling that is so particular to living in a city. 

There aren’t usually birds this early in the morning. A pair of doves built a nest just above his apartment, and as the sun begins to rise, their quiet cooing begins. He’s often not home to hear it; it almost makes him sad to miss their soft, soulful notes. Today, though, there is a falcon, perched on his fire escape, gazing out into the streets the same way he is, the soft white of his feathers tinged gold with the streetlamp light. He watches it for a while, but it is still; it doesn’t even turn its head toward him when he whistles. 

He wills that stillness into himself, laying his head back against the wall, his arm tucked around his raised knee. Perhaps someday, he will watch over the world with the same kind of calm. He must fall asleep there, because when he opens his eyes, the sun has climbed into the sky, and his neighbors have begun their morning bustles: mothers calling to children running late for school, the odd professional in tailored suits hurrying out the doors with briefcases and coffee, early-morning joggers and dog-walkers going about their business, dodging slow walkers in the streets. He has missed the transition, the world’s move into consciousness, awakeness, and the startle of it makes him feel groggy. 

He thinks about the falcon as he goes about his day. What business does a falcon have in the middle of DC anyway? Where were falcons even from? Can people keep them as pets? Maybe it escaped from somewhere. Maybe a falconer lives in his building; those are still a thing, he thinks - people who raise falcons for hunting. He is probably too preoccupied with it all because the day seems to blur past him without his notice, and by the time he arrives home, he is exhausted. Then again, lately, he is always exhausted.

*

The next morning, when he wakes at three with nightmare screams on his tongue, he doesn’t sit still. He goes running. He doesn’t feel better afterwards, but he does meet Sam, and Sam smiles with his whole face, and Steve could get used to looking at him. So Steve takes his invitation for what it is, because he needs to grasp at something good right now, and he thinks - Sam could be _good_ \- and goes to the VA and Sam tells him about Riley, about the one he lost, and continues to look at Steve like maybe he’s okay, like he’s seeing right through Captain America and down into the depths of Steve Rogers, and Steve has to look away because there’s too much to see in there, and he’s suddenly, tragically too shy to show it.

*

Steve is actually a little unsurprised by how quickly he became a fugitive from his own government.

He _is_ surprised that Natasha is with him. He is _not_ surprised that Sam stepped aside to let them duck into his house to hide from everyone they know, everyone who is no doubt looking to kill them right at this moment. 

Natasha sits in Sam’s spare bedroom, looking for her own quiet, and Steve looks for Sam. He leans against his counter and watches him scrape scrambled eggs off a pan and onto a plate already heaping with them, his face as serene as if he just woke up to find the world exactly as he left it. Steve can’t think of how to say what he wants to say, and by the time he opens his mouth, Natasha is wandering into the room, picking a piece of crisp bacon off a plate on the counter.

“So what’s the plan?”

They talk. They figure out where to go from there. Sam drops a file on his table. A résumé, he calls it. Steve’s breath catches at the photo, and he stares at Sam. “You have _wings_?”

Sam’s mouth twitches up into a smile, and he shrugs, modest. “They don’t call it the FALCON program for nothin’.”

Natasha’s eyebrows lift as she studies the files. “You’re not on any of the enhanced files anywhere. SHIELD would have something on you if this was a military experiment.”

 

“It wasn’t.” Sam winces. “You know that story, _Swan Lake_? They always do it as a ballet.”

Natasha snorts. “You trying to tell us a witch turned you into a swan?”

“A falcon, but yeah.” Sam grins sheepishly, and Steve has absolutely no right to think that is as charming as it is. “It’s sort of your standard stereotypical fairy tale, actually. Cursed by a witch to be a bird from dusk till dawn. Can only stop when I find my true love. Well, I found him. And he died. So now I have these wings. And sometimes I’m still a bird. Lucky for me, now I can at least control when that happens for the most part.”

“So they’ll carry you,” Steve nods at him. “You can fly.”

“Yep. It’s come in pretty handy for me. Though it makes shopping for clothes a bit difficult.”

He laughs at that, a little hysterically, if he’s honest with himself, because how else is he supposed to react? The first person he’s been interested in in a long time has _wings_ and can _fly_ and makes him feel not at all still inside.

*

When he finally sees the wings, spread out against the arching blue sky above DC, his breath catches, his neck craned, and for a long moment, he is very still - down to his heartbeat.

*

“Did you love Bucky?”

Steve considers the question for a long time, peering up into the sky. It’s a difficult one to answer, because it’s one he’s thought about for a long time and never come to a terribly clear conclusion on.

“I don’t know” is what he finally settles on, and it feels like a cop-out. He shrugs helplessly, looking over at Sam, who is standing there broad-shouldered and self-assured, and Steve can imagine the wings, stretching and flexing against his back, holding his shoulders so straight. “I’ve always wondered - if things were different - if it were a different time, maybe we could have been _something_. But we never were. It was never like that. He was just…” He spreads his hands. “He was sort of my everything - especially after my parents died. I think it’s hard to have that kind of a friendship with someone now. It’s hard to be that intimate. There are too many things to consider.” 

Sam looks out over the river, sluggish due to the dam. His jaw ticks, as it often does when he’s thinking. “I don’t think it has to be complicated,” he says quietly. “You just have to decide what’s important and be willing to fight for it.” 

Steve nods, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You know that’s what I have to do now, right? I have to fight for him, even if he doesn’t remember what I’m fighting for.”

“I get it.” Sam meets his gaze, steady, and Steve sees the resemblance suddenly, the stillness of that falcon inside him. “And I’ve got your back. That fight? It’s mine too.” 

*

They give themselves two weeks to rest after taking down Hydra. Sam’s wing is splinted, and he complains of discomfort no matter where he sits. 

“Honestly, man, no wonder birds just lay down and die when their wings break.” He shifts around on his back, half-sprawled on his couch, and huffs when he is unable to find a position he is satisfied with. 

Steve runs a soothing hand along the feathers of his wing, and Sam stills at the sensation, his jaw going slightly slack, eyes hooded. 

“This must be what a dog feels like when he gets scratched behind the ears,” he murmurs. “I haven’t let anyone touch my wings in a long time.”

“Sorry, should I have asked?” Steve says quietly, even as he keeps brushing the soft feathers between his fingers. “Not sure of the etiquette of touching someone’s wings. I guess that makes sense since I’ve never met anyone with wings before.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I like it.” Sam lets himself settle, and Steve can visibly see his muscles relaxing, the tension leaving them. “Honestly, I’ll be up and ready to go in a few days. I just need to be able to comfortably fold the thing. Your buddy packs a punch, man. Broke the thing with one hand.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Not _his_ fault either. I’m actually impressed by the efficiency.” Sam covers Steve’s hand with his own, squeezes it lightly.

They’re quiet for a while, letting the morning wash over them, and Steve is surprised by the lack of an itch to _move_ , to do something. He knows that it will start up again under his skin, especially with Bucky still out there, in god knows what state. For now, he will accept this as a rare blessing. He takes a deep breath and also accepts this as the moment that he has to ask, because if he doesn’t now, he never will. 

“You know, I know what you said, about finding your true love. But do you ever think about the possibility that maybe there’s someone else out there for you? Someone besides Riley.”

“You seein’ if I’m in the market, man?” Steve is deliberately not looking at him, but he can hear the smile in his voice.

His face feels hot. “You can just say no, you know; you don’t have to tease me.”

“I’m not teasing.” Sam squeezes his hand again. “But no, I’m not in the market. As far as I’m concerned, I’m spoken for.”

Steve’s heart sinks. But still, he supposes that this was always a possibility. “Still like that with him, even though he’s gone?”

“No.” Steve looks over at him, and there are those eyes again, steady, focused, just on him. “Not with him.” 

“So…”

“You gonna kiss me or what, Rogers?”

Maybe that sureness, that steadiness, rubs off, because Steve doesn’t hesitate in the least.


End file.
